I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
by Alexis Machine
Summary: Physical and psychic unhappiness force Mal closer to a lovely truth.


So, yeah, new Firefly story, and Firefly belongs to Joss Whedon. He is far cooler than I. If he'd like to arm-wrestle for a shiny, new Dortmunder class star cruiser, though, I'd be up for it. I really want me one of those...

Dedicated to Amelia because she's especially skilled at stalking Belle and Sebastian. Maybe it's good. I sure hope it is. The story, not the stalking. The stalking of B and S is ALWAYS good. Sort of a companion piece (giggle snort) to "Down in the Valley" and "We are in rats' alley." I sure love these two talking in bed or near it... 

Yeah. Well. Kalidasa, Saffron... total freaking all star day, aint it? Only folks missing are Wash's dinosaurs. I placed Inara as a Hindu (or Buddhist inflected Hindu) because of her social station (most more upper class Indians seem to be Hindu) and because of some of the icons I've seen scattered in various around her shuttle, especially in "The Train Job" and "Bushwhacked." I also left River a little nutty because, although Miranda's not in her brain anymore, she's still been through some stuff, and geniuses are a little cracked anyhow... so... enjoy!

"I desired my dust to be mingled with yours."

Mal struggled toward Serenity, dripping red along behind with every step. He wondered if they'd managed to pursue, or if they were still tangled up with the police. It didn't matter. He couldn't move any faster, and thinking about that was just a thing to surely make him crazy. His hip stabbed with every jolting, lurching step across the uneven terrain. Was it broken? Could you walk with a broken hip? He'd seen men keep running, half blown apart, back during the war, but they'd only gone a few yard and then dropped dead when they figured out that their innards had become out-ards.

That was pleasant thinking when your leg hurt. Mal was pretty sure that it was broken, though, because it felt like shards of glass grinding in his pelvis, on the bone that was still whole, and he wasn't making good time at all. Stupid horse. Was it his fault that the damned thing had bolted at the gunshots? It should have been below the window, but it wasn't. There was nothing but the street, there, and the street was merciless.

Well, he hadn't broken his neck or anything, and that was positve, though he didn't know if he could call it mercy. "Da shabi si ban ba," Mal gasped back toward town. Twisting like that was a mistake, though, because it made the pain in his shoulder, which he had largely sublimated into numbness, flare again to fiery life. That was the wound that worried him, more than his hip. The hip, at least, wasn't bleeding. The bullet hole in his shoulder, though, had already soaked his shirt. It clung to his chest and belly like a swim-suit. Through and through makes a big mess, Mal thought clinically. Bad shot, though. Lucky that it wasn't me. That close I'd have gone for the head.

Next time he saw that ghou si false Companion cho lade langun he WOULD aim for the head, and smile when her brains came out in a strawberry swirled fan against the opposite wall. The thought made him smile, now, and the smile relieved some of the pressure in his neck, and so some of the pain in his shoulder. Soon it was a grimace, though. He was bleeding to death, Mal knew, and there was nothing he could do about it. God damn her, Mal thought, and it was honestly almost a prayer, God damn that whoring devil woman. Serenity loomed closer like Heaven's gate, and Zoe and Kaylee running out toward him, calling for the doctor. The world swam. Mal staggered, one thing led to another, and he collapsed. This, as always, felt like smacking down face first into a giant cup of Blue Sun brand gelatin snacks.

When Mal awoke he saw Zoe, Kaylee and Inara looking down at him instead of his Ma, Wash and Book, so he figured that he wasn't dead. Good thing, too, cause he didn't want to hear Ma's lecture for showing up in such a state, though he'd have surely loved to see her. 'Ta ma de," Mal breathed... that was crazy thinking. To he see Ma he'd have to be dead, and no sir, that wasn't an option here. Too much to live for, too much trouble to find. Certain red-heads to shoot, for starters.

"I see that nearly dying hasn't improved your language," 'Nara said. Her voice was gentle, though, and held no real reproof.

Mal tried to crane himself around and look, but a lance of white hot agony in his hips and legs stopped him short. "Part of being a scruffy space pirate" he said. "We don't take that course in charm school like you folks do." Such a weak rattle. He sounded like an old man. Damn! How long had he been out?

"We been so worried, Cap'n," Kaylee said, "it's been at least two days... and some hours to spare, too... we aint et nor slept." She paused, "Well, Jayne has. But he was worried, too!"

"It's okay, Little Kaylee," Mal said, "I aint dying. Least not for right now, though it might feel a sight better than this."

Simon wasn't in the circle of faces--probably getting another IV ready, Mal could feel the weight of the needle in his arm--but his voice was. "I'm amazed that you made it as far as you did. Your hip's got cracks running all through it, and even with ultra-sound you won't be up and about for a week. It's a medical marvel that you didn't bleed to death."

"Pure meanness, doc," Zoe said. "Captain's gonna kill the son of a bitch that shot him."

"More like bitch, unadorned," Mal said, "Yo--Saff--Bridg--whoever the hell she is today and some ba dan that she'd hired caught me and took some shots. Don't know if the meeting went bad, or if the whole meeting was a set-up. I went out the window, thinking that I'd catch a ride on the horse right below it. I didn't, but the ground sure didn't mind catching me."

"Gravity's a harsh mistress, sir."

River poked his hip gingerly. Shockingly enough pain didn't flare throughout his body. Mal didn't know if it was her preternaturally light touch or Simon's lack of stinginess with narcotics, but he surmised that it was probably an equal measure of both, and he was thankful for them. "Your hip is bad," she said. "Bad... from the Latin, mal. Your hip is mal. You are Mal, therefore, your hip is you."

"Thanks for that astute analysis, little albatross." He patted her hand, and regretted it immediately. Where was Simon with those drugs? However much he'd taken... more was necessary, dammit.

"5x5, Captain Daddy."

Where had she gotten that? Plucked from his subconscious, or Zoe's? He hadn't said that since well before Serenity Valley when things actually WERE 5x5, once in a while. For a few minutes at a time, at least. "Why don't you and Kaylee run along and play?" he said, "Or get something to eat? There aint nothing you can do here, and no need for fainting from hunger."

"Are you sure you'll be all right, Cap'n?" Kaylee said.

Simon rubbed the back of her neck absently before injecting another round of morphine into Mal's IV, and she nuzzled against his hand. "It's better if we let him rest. Now that he's awakened having us around too much will be a hinderance, not a help." He looked at Mal, "I'll keep an eye on you while you sleep, in case anything changes."

The young doc looked like hell, Mal had to admit, almost older than he did himself, right now. "You go," Inara said. "I'll stay."

"Are you sure?" Simon said. "You haven't moved since you got back and found him here."

"And you haven't been off your feet, doctor. Go and get something to eat with Kaylee and your sister. We'll be fine."

"If you're sure." Simon bowed, a peculiar enough gesture this far from the Core, and his exhaustion made it even stranger and more awkward. Mal thought, for a moment, that the doctor would pitch face first onto the infirmary's metal floor. Instead he straightened and left the infirmary with strides far less crisp than normal. His shoes boomed against the corridor like jungle drums, and Mal knew that the morphine was taking hold, and that he wouldn't be awake for long.

He smiled up at Inara, "Got em to leave so you could finally murder me, did you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, "although that may as well be telling you to die. Sometimes I think foolishness is your life force."

"This fun loving fellow that you see is but a front. I have depths you can't comphre... compre... that you can't understand." The words became heavier and every syllable was an obstacle. "Anyways, you're the prettiest girl who's tried to murder me today, so that's something."

"This week."

"Huh?"

"This week," she said. "You have been out for more than two days, you know." She clasped his hand with tiny, delicate fingers. "You stupid man. Why did you go by yourself?"

Her skin felt so nice against his, tender as the sheets beneath. His mother had held his hand like this, long ago, when he'd smashed his leg the first time trying to break a spirited colt named Thunder. Was he here or there? He knew, logically, that his eyelids were fluttering open and shut--that's what morphine did, praise be--but it seemed less like drifting off to sleep and more like hazing in and out, between Serenity and Shadow. Who to respond to, Ma or 'Nara? He went with Inara, since she seemed brighter, although that may have just been effect of her lush, purple and gold sari where the colors swirled like the smell of her hair. "Would you have rather me and Zoe both got shot? Or me and Jayne?" He paused, almost fell asleep, and fought his way back. "Well, Jayne..."

"You'd have handled it together," she said. "Only a fool goes into danger by himself and you, Malcom Reynolds, are a fool." She brushed his hair back from his forehead and whispered, soft as burning incense, "You are a beautiful, beautiful fool."

He wasn't supposed to hear that, Mal knew, so he didn't respond. What did it mean, anyway? Corn-meal and monkey shit she made his mind. He wondered where the shadows stopped and where the woman started. There was a blurred line between the registered Companion, Inara Serra, and the woman that sweated, bled and cried. He'd seen her do all three, the last of them to his misery. That line was her, though, was her female mystery, and could not be denied. He watched her watching him. The dark rings under her eyes weren't kohl, and her cheeks were flushed, a rare sight. Was she a bodhavista blossom or a beautiful racoon? The image would have made him laugh if that wouldn't have hurt, and the undercurrents would have made him cry, had he been another man and she another woman. There were a thousand things he could have said, had he been that other man, but he was Mal and she Inara so instead he said, "My albatross aint the only crazy one around here."

She pursed her lips and touched her fingertips to his eyelids. "You need sleep, not argument. I won't let you bait me."

That sounded like a challenge. "Woman, I could bait you in my sleep." Mal didn't, though, and his sleep was deep and full of dreams about Shadow, Serenity Valley, soaring through the Black in silence. He was in Serenity, his steel angel, and she was bearing him toward home. Not the burned up husk that the Alliance had made, but the glowing, vital place that he'd grown up on, warm fields and herds of horses grazing everywhere, loping through the grass just as graceful as Serenity cutting the vacuum. Home was buttermilk and biscuits, the smell of mowed grass and tack, sweat worn into the grooves on an ax handle because Ma couldn't afford any new-fangled power saw and wouldn't hear of such a thing coming to her ranch even if she could have. Stevie Leffords, from the R and R, had slipped the blade and got cut clear from crotch to craw, she said, and imagine what his ma had to clean up. She kept him safe, watched him work and ride and wrestle with the ranch hands.

Mal's consciousness reasserted itself in the hazy langour. Ma didn't look like that. She was taller, broader, and had green eyes. This woman was a slip of ochre and her eyes were like staring into inkdrops, a deep enough blackness to make a Reaver of you, if you sank into them too long. She was dressed in silk and shadow. Blue-black luster clung to her hair like vines. Inara. An important name. It called him as loudly as his own, which he heard on some level deeper than hearing. "Mal," someone called (maybe this important name?), "Mal!" More urgent, "Mal!" From the Latin for bad. His hip was mal, and his shoulder. "Mal!" Maybe this Inara was like Ma, a little, even if she didn't look like her. It was good to have someone watching out for you. What do the dead remember of their mortal acquaintances, Allen Ginsberg had asked Joan Burroughs' ghost so long ago, on a vision quest. Would his ma remember him? Would Land or Schecter, Wash or Book? Who was this powerful name that wouldn't slip or let him slip?

Wait a minute... Ma was dead, and had been for years. This new force couldn't--was too vital to--die. There was Simon again, and Kaylee. She looked like she'd seen a demon, and it was probably the pressure of her hands squeezing his that had awakened him. The beautiful shadow had fled, taking the holy name with it. Simon prised Mal's hand out of Kaylee's and checked his pulse, "I'm truly sorry that I left you, Captain. You almost died, again."

"I did?"

"'Nara said your heart stopped," Kaylee said. "We was so scared. Again. S'got to be where we're that way a lot, these days."

"I... I'm sorry. I can't say it enough."

"You're gonna be an odd one, son, if you murmur it to Kaylee in a time of need." They were both young enough to blush.

"I... too much of one thing, not enough of another. It played with the rhythm of your heart. It's no excuse, but..."

"You do what you can with what you got, same as all of us. Let me sleep."

"As I recall that very nearly got you into some trouble, just now."

"Kaylee-bird can watch me, eh? Take it in shifts. You, Kaylee, Zoe, 'Nara..." he thought about it, "well, maybe not Jayne. But I think I need to sleep some. Maybe for a good while." Breathing wasn't easy. Talking was worse than losing an ear, worse than thinking about eating Tedescoe, after he died at Serenity Valley. He'd looked mighty tasty when the hunger pangs started, time after time. Mal couldn't imagine sitting up. So, instead of sitting up, he lay back down and let his eye-lids flutter shut.

He slept through Kaylee's shift, dreamless and deep, and half dozed through Simon's fretting. Zoe read him a bed-time story (Something about a train named Blaine, of all things, and his adventures along a route to a place called Topeka on Earth-That-Was, and ended up married to a pink train named Patricia) and River stared up at the ceiling, watching the lights play on the metal. "She finds rainbows that are angels," she said, "dancing in the poetry he writes when no one sees nor cares to look." Whatever that meant.

By time Inara came to sit with him, again, Mal was sitting up and able to talk, even feeling some better. He'd started dreaming weird, again, but nothing like the trip to Shadow that he'd taken when his heart stopped. Was that what near death experiences felt like? If so, Mal didn't recommend them. It was like when you ate too much of that terrifying stuff Inara put on everything, which got the kitchen smelling for a week, when she took a notion to cook. Not that it was bad--far from it--but you didn't want to be downwind from Jayne after supper on those nights, and you'd dream about crazy things like Kaylee digging holes in the table to plant flowers, steamed broccoli running around the bridge fighting Wash's dinosaurs...you might even see two Rivers, one you could interact with and one that hid in corners, peeping out at you like a tree-frog. Inara was reading a slim volume with Sanskrit characters on the front that Mal couldn't make out. They vined in and out of gold leaves in an arabesque on the burgundy cover. "Whatcha reading?"

"The Vikramorvashe of Kalidasa ," she said, never taking her eyes off the flowing lines, so much like her hair. "This copy was my mother's. She gave it to me when I turned eighteen, along with the copy of the Ramayana that she read to me when I was small. It's very old and precious. I don't take it out much."

"I haven't heard of Kali, Kala..." Mal struggled for a moment.

"Kalidasa?"

"That guy. Him you said. Was he Sihnonese?" Sanskrit had enjoyed rejuvenated popularity as a literary language on Sihnon, among those whose ancient tongue it had been, as they struggled to maintain their separate identity on the largely Chinese homeworld

"No," she said, "he was from India, on Earth-That-Was. He wrote many, many years ago. Such a beautiful use of a beautiful tongue.

"Sad I can't understand it. What's it about?"

"A king falls in love with a cosmic sprite. He creates a play to honor her beauty, but speaks her forbidden name, during it, and so they are separated and she's hurled back into the void, never to see him again."

"Sounds good. Just a bit morbid to be reading over a man's hospital bed. Makes a man think about death, especially when he's laid out like this. Do you ever think of dying?"

She gently closed the book. "Fear of death is fear of change, and change is inevitable," she said. "We fear death because we know that we won't stay the same, and won't have the same things as we did. It's natural. Humans are very conservative creatures."

"Very deft. You didn't answer." He tried to shift into a more comfortable position, found that such a thing didn't exist, and gave up. "Have you ever been afraid that you were going to die?"

She lapsed into silence and shut her eyes. For a moment Mal thought she wouldn't answer, that maybe the conversation had ended, but finally she said, "Several times. When Gulchak held a gun to my head and you saved me comes to mind especially readily."

"Well," Mal said, "it's recent."

"Yes, and one of your psychotic business contacts held a gun to my head," she said, "lest we forget."

He shrugged. "True enough. He won't bother you anymore, though." Mal--and Zoe and Jayne--had seen to that, well enough. Inara spattered with Gulchak's blood, the fear that some of it might have been her own, how she'd felt collapsed against his chest... the images were seared into his mind. Just another ghost on this ship of ghosts, and one hanging between life and the shadows, even when he wasn't laid out in the infirmary for a week.

"There have been clients, too, that misunderstood the nature of my business, times that I got scared." Her eyes were still closed, and Mal knew that he was very close to the core of her being, a place he'd been so few times before, and a favor he'd returned even fewer. "A man pulled a knife on me before, when I withheld something that he didn't need, and would have scarred me, but they do teach us self defense. But Marma Atti. I was able approach him and take the knife, and now he's in prison."

"Now that does surprise me," Mal said, "him pulling the knife at all, not him getting jailed and the like. I thought you Companions were supposed to be high class ladies, not treated so."

"As imperfect a blending of cultures as ours has been creates... situations. In a hundred years perhaps the educational programs that we've set up will eliminate some of that, but for now..." she shook her head, "you yourself called me 'whore' up until a couple of months ago."

"I wasn't calling you whore," he said. 'That was all aggravation, things I couldn't say, still can't, so I just said it like that. You know I'm not smart with words."

Inara, who knew better, let that lie and said, "So you flung all that fury toward me in a single misogynist term?"

"Yeah," he said, "I guess did. Is that a good thing?"

"I think that's how serial killers are made, Mal."

In the old days he would have said it here. He'd have couched it, somehow, like, well, what else would a whore say about those who didn't agree with their ways, and they'd have fought, and maybe not have spoken for a week or two, but they were past that now--weren't they? The lines of communication still lay between them, open as a patient etherized upon a table, and he didn't dare even pull out the needle and thread for fear they'd stay closed this time, he'd loose her in the lights of Sihnon, never get her back. Instead of calling names--and who did that but a baby, anyhow, surely not a grown man--he said, "You know that's not it. I was pushing you out cause I knew that'd make you mad, get under that damnably cool skin of yours."

She leaned over and layed her cheek against his cheek. She was so close that he felt her breath caress his face and ear when she whispered, "Is my skin so damnably cool, Mal?"

"No," he said, so soft that it was like remembering a dream, "no. It's warm. You're warm." He took her slender wrists in his big hands and held them, appreciating all the nearness that he could muster from her, knew that it wasn't a common thing between them, enjoying it for as long as he could. She always left; even if she stayed on Serenity the distance between them would widen. It always did after they grew close like when he'd carved her a tiny Krishna, to sit on her dresser, for her birthday, and a Buddha as bodhavista to keep it company, or when she'd sung him to sleep. That seemed like millenia ago... one of the last times they'd spoken before she left--really left--and he hadn't found her again for months. A poem from Earth-That-Was floated through his thoughts--I desired my dust to be mingled with yours, forever and forever and forever. He decided to be close to her, for as long as he could, and fell asleep and didn't dream and didn't die. The blackness came in a rush of dark hair. Malcom Reynolds embraced it and never let go. 


End file.
